


the star to every wandering bark

by yodasyoyo



Series: my life without you in it [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also fluff, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Dereks POV, I mean, M/M, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, but she is still kate, derek dates kate briefly, it goes about as well as you'd expect, nobody dies or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7556482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion fic to i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart), so read that first:</p><p>Derek's spent most of the last six years letting his life happen to him, shying away from big decisions, refusing to let anyone close. Unwilling to try and succeed, because he doesn't want to fail. Unwilling to live fully, because he knows what it means to lose the thing he cares for most.</p><p>He doesn't want to be that person any more.</p><p>He refuses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the star to every wandering bark

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got a lot of requests for a sequel to I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart). TA DA! Here it is, I hope you enjoy it. This tells the story from Derek's POV.
> 
> The timeline kind of jumps around a little bit, flashing back to Derek's childhood and the present day. Hopefully it's not too confusing.
> 
> Also, the opening quote is Shakespeare Sonnet 116. Just because.
> 
> This fic briefly has Derek dating Kate Argent. There also mentions of Derek/Jennifer and Derek/Paige.

_Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove:_

_O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,_

_That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;_

_It is the star to every wandering bark,_

 

The air is thick and syrupy. It had been blisteringly hot all day, in a way that sapped all of Derek’s energy and left him wandering about listless and lethargic, unable to concentrate on anything at all.

Tonight, the air is heavy with the promise of a storm, and as he lies on his bed, he can hear the first heavy rain drops hit the window sill, as a shy breeze whispers through the open window, rifling the papers he left out on his desk. In the distance, thunder rumbles ominously.

Derek throws one arm across his forehead, it’s slick with sweat and his breath sticks to his lungs on every exhale. He listens, relieved, as the rain starts to fall in earnest. Sighs, gets up, and picks a path across his room in the dark, making his way to the window. He stands there, one arm reaching out, palm up; watches as the wind picks up, rustling the leaves on the birch tree in the backyard and bending the branches, feels fat rain drops burst against his skin and trickle down, dripping off his outstretched hand.

Today, Ms Morrell, the school guidance counsellor, sat him in her office and tried to get him to talk about his future. It had been weirdly stressful, not just because the intense heat had robbed him of his ability to string a coherent sentence together, but because he genuinely has no clue what he wants to do.

None.

There’s a crack of lightning close by and for one moment everything lights up, strange and alien, casting jagged shadows that anything could hide in. The wind moans a challenge and the rain falls harder in response. Derek pulls his window shut with a bang and runs across his room, diving onto his bed, heart pounding wildly.

“Stiles?” He reaches out to him without conscious thought.

There’s a long pause.

“Stiles?” Derek tries again, still nothing.

He scrambles up to check his alarm clock. It’s nearly one in the morning, and California is three hours behind New York, which means he’s probably asleep-

 _Wassup, Der?_ Stiles’ voice sounds bleary. His words, half-formed and slurred with sleep, appear in Derek’s brain, fooling it into thinking they’ve just been said aloud, even though he knows from experience he’s the only one who ever hears Stiles’ voice.

“Did I wake you up?”

_A lil’ bit, yeah. S’okay though. Whaddya want?_

Derek’s ear burn. He's stupid to have woken Stiles up, and for what? “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

Stiles yawns, and Derek can feel him now, the essence of him. His tiredness, his affection, the way his thoughts and feelings lap up against Derek’s own, the edges bleeding into each other in a comforting confluence of emotion.

_I’m awake now, come on, talk to me._

“It’s okay, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Stiles’ scorn is palpable, it prickles Derek’s palms.

_Come on, Der. I’m awake. We may as well talk._

“I don’t want you to be tired for school tomorrow.”

_Well you shoulda thought of that before you woke me up._

“But-”

_You sound like my Mom, Der. Are you my Mom? Do I have two Moms now? Are you secretly a thirty-five year old woman? Have you been lying to me all this time?_

Derek rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a jerk,” he huffs out.

_Says the jerk who woke me up._

“I’m trying to let you go back to sleep!”

_I don’t want to go back to sleep. I wanna talk to you!_

“Fine.” Derek’s sitting up in bed, arms folded across his chest petulantly, and he isn't even sure how he got there. Stiles always does this to him, gets under his skin and into his head in a way that no-one else can.

There’s a long pause.

_I’ll sing the Power Rangers theme tune, on a loop, for the next hour, Der. I swear._

“I hate you.” Derek says.

_Yeah, I’m really feeling that._

“I do though, so much hate.”

_Don’t embarrass yourself, you love me, and we both know it._

It’s pointless to deny it. They both know that Stiles can feel every bit of begrudging affection through their bond, even if he can’t see the tender half-smile which tugs at the corner of Derek’s mouth.

_Talk to me Der-Bear._

“Don’t call me that.”

_Yeah, yeah, I love you too._

There’s something about the artless way Stiles says it. Plain and certain. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the moon orbits the earth, the tide rolls in every day and out again, and Stiles loves Derek, Derek loves Stiles. Stiles says it so easily, though. A casual admission that Derek can’t ever get his head round. Maybe because he’s that bit older, that bit more self-aware, that bit more reserved. He knows he cares for Stiles, but he can’t quite work out what Stiles is to him. Family? Friend? Neither seems to fit. Neither seems enough.

“I-” he trails off, awkwardly.

 _Geez, don’t hurt yourself._ Stiles says, and Derek can hear the smile in his voice,  can feel his amusement fizzing through their bond. _What’s up?_

“It was hot today.”

_Yeah? Hotter than California?_

“Uh- I don’t know, probably not, but hotter than I’m used to,” Derek admits. “There’s a storm now.”

 _Oh,_ there’s a pause, _Are you scared?_

“No!” Derek says, “I mean, no. That’s- I’m not scared.”

_Okay._

There’s another long pause. Derek’s mouth works soundlessly. He keeps seeing Ms. Morrell in his mind’s eye, the way she looked at him so expectantly, like he should have a plan, or know what he wants. There are so many little pressures creeping up on him now, his mid-terms, his budding relationship with Paige, a key basketball game this weekend, and now he has to decide what he wants to do with his _life_? He hasn’t a clue. He doesn’t feel good enough at any one thing to even begin to make that decision.

 _Life is so complicated sometimes,_ Stiles sighs.

“Yeah.” Derek agrees, relieved at first, that Stiles can read him so well, can reach through the tangled knot of Derek’s emotions and unpick them with a simple phrase. Something in Stiles’ tone makes him pause though. He reaches out through the bond, to try and get an emotional read on him, but he can’t do it. There’s nothing there, like a wall has gone up around them. “Stiles, are you okay?”

 _Me? Yup!_ His voice sounds brittle to Derek’s ears. It’s strange, to hear his voice and not feel the emotion attached to it.

“You’re sure? Is this- Is your Mom any better?” He’s grasping at straws, but Stiles had mentioned in passing that she’d been sick.

_Yeah- fine. Everything’s fine._

And still Derek can’t sense any emotion through the bond. It’s freaking him out, and he doesn’t quite know what to do.

 _You know,_ Stiles says suddenly, _I was supposed to be doing this science project thing at school today, and instead I accidentally wrote a six page essay on why Charizard is the most overrated Pokemon. My science teacher, Mr Stockman, looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry._

Derek snorts with laughter. “I bet. Why did you hand it in?”

_He wanted to know what I’d been doing with my time! What was I supposed to do? Personally, I blame Scott, he’s the one who started me on the subject in the first place._

And just like that Derek can feel Stiles’ emotions start to trickle back through to him. Not as strong as usual, but there nonetheless. He lets them wash through him, frustration, amusement, embarrassment, indignation. It’s a relief.

“I always liked Charizard,” Derek says, folding his arms behind his head and smiling.

Stiles snorts. _He’s okay, but there are better Pokemon out there Derek, and we both know it._

“Hah! Name one.”

 _One? One?_ Stiles spits, _I hope you’re sitting comfortably Derek, because I’m telling you now, I can name more than one…_

 

-

 

 

When it comes to relationships, Derek’s never been great at putting himself forward, at articulating his needs, or even, at times, recognizing what he really wants.

“You’re so passive about the whole thing. Have you ever even asked anyone out?” Laura asks him over dinner one evening, through a mouth full of half-chewed pasta. She’s sitting cross-legged on the faded olive green couch they found in a second hand furniture store when they first moved to the city from upstate.

Derek shrugs and spears a tomato with his fork.

“You haven’t, have you?” she says, accusingly. “Paige asked _you_ out. Braeden, Ethan, _Jennifer. Ack_.” At the thought of Derek’s old college girlfriend Laura shivers.

Derek’s face scrunches thoughtfully. “Jennifer was-”

“Crazy.” Laura says, chewing vengefully on a piece of asparagus.

“A mistake,” Derek concedes.

“A mistake you made for two years Derek. _Two years_ , and even then, it only ended because she dumped _you_. And you go straight from that hot mess to Kate!” Laura spits her name with the kind of venom she usually reserves for right-wing politicians, televangelists and people who fold down the corners in books.

“I broke up with Kate,” Derek points out.

“You did, bro, and I’m proud of you for finally standing up to her, but here’s what I don’t get: What possessed you to date her in the first place? Why did you date any of them?”

“They asked.”

Laura drops her fork to the floor with a clatter, and stares. “ _They asked_ ? That’s your reasoning? _Really?_ ”

Derek shrugs, and reaches for his glass of Franzia, studiously avoiding Laura’s furious gaze. He doesn’t know what else to say. For a long time now he’s just figured that part of him is broken. Nobody ever seems to excite him or attract him, not like they’re _supposed_ to. He’s just not- invested. Not in the way people need him to be. In his career, his love-life, everything. There was a time when he worried he should have it all figured out. Now, he's stopped trying. In the year since he left college, he's drifted from job to job, from relationship to relationship, unable to muster enthusiasm for any of it.

Romantically, the closest he ever came to feeling anything was with Paige. Something about her bright brown eyes, coltish limbs, even her snub nose, had attracted him like no-one else had, before or since. When she’d asked him out, he’d said yes without hesitation.

It hadn’t worked out though, he’d felt- disjointed when they were together. Their personalities didn’t fit together neatly, full of rough edges that rubbed each other up the wrong way. Their quiet moments were never comfortable and they didn’t smile enough, and almost never at the same time. It hadn’t come as a surprise when Paige ended it.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Laura hisses, startling him from his thoughts, as she scrapes the last of the pasta salad out of the bowl and crams it into her mouth. “What did Kate even do, anyway?” she mumbles through a mouthful of food. “What could she possibly have done that was worse than _Jennifer_?”

Derek puts his glass down carefully. “It doesn’t matter,” he says.

“But-”

“I have the right to remain silent,” Derek says, firmly. “You’re a law student, you should know that.”

Laura snorts, “Fine, have it your way.”

Later that night, after they’ve finished marathoning Game of Thrones, she turns to him. “I didn’t mean to pry, okay? It’s just, sometimes it seems like you don’t care about yourself, like you’ve given up, like you think it doesn’t matter how people treat you.”

Derek’s stares steadily at the corner of the hideous olive couch.

“You matter, Der. Okay?” she says, patting his arm. “Start acting like it, don’t date someone just because they ask you to, date them because you _want_ to. Okay? I worry about you.”

Derek swallows hard, nudges her arm, “Stop being nice to me,” he says gruffly. “It’s freaking me out.”

“What are you, twelve?” Laura's voice is soft, expression hopelessly fond.

He gives her a noogie and she screeches with laughter.

  
  
-

 

“You ever think about what you wanna be when you grow up?” Derek asks. He’s just had yet another disappointing meeting with Ms. Morrell and he’s going for casual, but he can tell Stiles doesn’t buy it.

_Sure, why?_

“What?” Derek asks, ignoring Stiles’ question. “What do you wanna be?”

_A cop, like my Dad._

“Huh.” Derek thinks for a long moment. “I can see you as a cop.”

 _You can’t see me as anything,_ Stiles points out. _We’ve never met. I don’t even know if you’re real._

“Of course I’m real,” Derek says, for the forty-millionth time.

 _You know I’m real, because I sent you a picture._ Stiles persists.

“I know.” The picture sits neatly folded in Derek’s desk drawer, hidden from prying eyes. Derek gets up and moves to sit in his chair. He slides the drawer open, lifting up a box of tissues and random pieces of paper and pens, to get at the picture. He unfolds it carefully and lays it out on the desk in front of him.

_You never sent me anything back._

“My mom wouldn’t let me, you know that.” Six years ago, when Stiles’ picture had arrived in an inconspicuous brown envelope with a California postmark, his Mom had freaked out. Unfortunately for Derek, she’d just attended a PTA meeting that had highlighted the dangers of kids using the internet. She’d become convinced that the letter was proof Derek was being groomed by some stranger online, masquerading as a seven year old boy.

He’d tried to point out how ridiculous that was, that his internet history _proved_ that wasn’t the case, but a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and she’d muttered darkly about private browsing, hackers and the dark web, all of which had left Derek confused and frustrated. He’d been grounded for weeks, lectured about stranger danger and online safety, told never to give out his home address to anyone online again. All his protests, that he'd never done that in the first place, fell on deaf ears. It was at least a month before he’d been able to sneak into his Mom’s room and retrieve Stiles’ picture from a high shelf.

 _We should meet up,_ Stiles says, interrupting Derek’s reverie.

Derek’s fingers tighten around the edge of the drawing. “We will, one day.”

_You always say that, but-_

He can feel little flickers of Stiles’ emotions, licking through the bond like a flame: Fear, frustration, sadness.

“Hey, I promise, okay? We’ll meet up. We can’t yet- but we will one day. Definitely.”

 _Yeah, okay._ Stiles sounds resigned.

“I promise,” Derek repeats, firmly. “I’m looking at your picture right now.”

_Really? What color’s my t-shirt?_

“Red.” Derek runs his fingers over it, tracing the crudely drawn lines and bright, careless color. He allows himself a small smile.

Stiles sighs. _That was supposed to be a test, to see if you actually had it out in front of you, but it’s been ages, I can’t remember what colors I used,_ he admits.

“You’ll just have to trust me then. It was red.”

 _I do, it’s just hard sometimes, I guess._ Stiles huffs out a soft laugh, _I can’t believe you kept that picture all this time, you’re such a giant dork._ A swell of affection crests and breaks across the bond and warmth unfurls in Derek’s chest.

“Well, some things matter,” he says, before he can overthink it.

There’s a flicker of something indefinable across the bond, but whatever it is, it’s gone before Derek can process it.

_How’s your girlfriend?_

It’s a one-eighty that leaves Derek blinking in confusion, not least because Stiles never normally mentions Paige at all.

“Fine, I guess.”

 _You guess?_ At that, Derek can feel Stiles’ amusement zinging through him, tinged with something that feels a little like relief.

“I worry I’m not actually that great of a boyfriend,” Derek confides. “I’m not great with people.”

_You care about people though. I mean, that’s obvious._

“To you maybe, you can feel my emotions. I’m not so great with-” he makes a frustrated hand gesture, that he knows Stiles can’t see, shoulders sagging.

 _Yeah, Derek no words good. I get that, I guess. Speaking of which,_ he says, changing the subject.  _Did you have another meeting with your guidance counsellor? Is that why you’re wondering what my grand plan for the future is?_

Derek leans back in his chair. “Yeah,” he admits.

_So, what’s got you stressed? Is it because you don’t know what you want? Or are you just worried about admitting it?_

“The first one, I think. I don’t feel- _good enough_ at anything, except basketball, but it’s not like I’m good enough at that to go _pro_ or anything.”

 _I think you’re better at stuff than you think,_ Stiles says, thoughtfully. _Take people, you say you’re not good with people, but you always make me feel better._

“But you can feel-”

_It’s not just because of our freaky psychic connection, okay? All those times when I was younger and I got nightmares and you woke with me, and talked to me until I got back to sleep, remember? I mean, the first time we ever spoke I’d broken my arm and you tried to make me feel better, and you did- you did that- I felt better, because you were there for me, you were patient and you didn't have to be. That’s who you are, Derek. You can’t tell me you don’t care, because I know you do._

Derek bites his lip, his ears burning. “Stiles-”

_Just, trust me, okay? You’re a good guy. You'll figure it out.  
_

Derek wants to believe him, he does, but the truth is there’s been a little distance between him and Stiles of late. The emotional connection they once had isn’t there in the same way it was. Like Stiles is holding part of himself back all the time.

If Stiles were really telling the truth, if Derek were really as good as he says, then that wouldn’t be the case, would it?

 

-

 

Derek picks up a few shifts at the gym as a personal trainer every week, his Mom got him the job, a friend of a friend who owes her a favor. He hates it. Enjoys working out, but hates dealing with people. His looks mean he’s always fairly popular, even though quite a few people drop out or change trainers when faced with the reality of his gruff demeanour.

Kate literally bumps into him as he’s leaving work one day, knocking the coffee he’s holding everywhere.

She wheels around angrily, but stops short when she catches sight of his face. Smiles, apologizes, invites him out for coffee.

He says yes. He always says yes, whenever anyone asks him. He keeps hoping that eventually he’ll find the person who will help make sense of everything. The person who will make him feel whatever it is he’s supposed to be feeling.

Kate is pretty, it’s the first thing he notices. Tawny blonde hair, soft curves, blue eyes, a quick smile and smart as a whip. She knows what she wants, too, and he thinks that maybe he needs that, that it would be good for him. He’s been drifting aimlessly through his own life for far too long.

It starts with coffee, there’s a second date, then a third.

There’s something lacking about her, though. No one thing he can put his finger on, just a vague feeling of discomfort that steadily grows. It dawns on him slowly that her quick smile is actually sharp as a razor, her blue eyes, cool and clinical. His Grandma always used to tell him, “Watch people’s actions Derek, the way they speak, what they do. From the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.” He never really understood what that meant, but he thinks he gets it now. Kate is cold, unfeeling. It’s there in fleeting moments of unkindness, jokes at the expense of other people, snide comments about someone’s appearance. It’s there in the way she rolls her eyes and says, “At least you’re pretty, I guess,” whenever she thinks he's being particularly stupid about something. It’s a habit that makes a little part of him shrivel inside, makes him doubt himself, despite the fact that he knows he’s more than that.

He’s more than what he looks like.

He thinks.

He _hopes_.

Laura hates her on sight. She claims she’s ‘Some kind of reptile-robot mutant hybrid, Der. Except that’s an insult to both robots _and_ lizards. I swear to god that woman’s never felt an actual emotion in her life. Where do you find these people, Derek? _Where?_ ’

He needs to make a decision. Needs to end things with Kate, or try and talk it through and work something out. He’s never been great at talking about his feelings though. In his whole life, there’s only ever been one person who he’s really opened up to like that. One person, who was able to read him that well, so well, that he didn’t need to use his words half the time. Besides, he may never have asked someone out, but he’s never been the one to break up with anyone either. People don’t seem to want to stick it out once they get past his looks, and discover his prickly personality, the mass of insecurities that seethe just beneath the surface. That's why it comes as such a surprise when he's the one to end things with Kate.

Laura’s working late one night, helping one of her tutors prepare paperwork for a deposition the next day. Derek tried to cancel Kate this evening, he worked a double at the gym, and he has a tension headache. In truth he just wants to be alone, but Kate ignores him, comes over anyway, and then stalks round the apartment, restless and irritated.

“We should get take-away then, if you’re not in the mood for fun. Do you have any cash?”

Derek shrugs, reaches into the pocket of his jeans and eases his wallet out, opening it to check.

Kate leans over him.

“What’s this?” Her fingers close over the worn edges of the paper hidden away in his wallet, tugging it out roughly. Derek snatches it out of her hand and tucks the paper carefully back into the buttery soft leather.

“Nothing, it’s nothing.”

He can feel his ears pink as she stares at him, one eyebrow arched in judgement. It’s an expression he’s become all too familiar with in the two months since he and Kate started dating.

Her lips purse.

“It’s just, personal,” Derek tries. “It’s got sentimental value, I guess.”

“Sentimental value.”

“Yeah, uh, I-”

She fixes him with a cool stare, “So what is it then? A love letter from an old girlfriend?”

“No! No, that’s not-” his ears are burning now, his stomach roils. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not with her, not with anyone.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, and closes his eyes. “It’s- I had a friend, a penpal, I guess you could call him, when I was a kid, and he drew me a picture, and that’s- what this is.” It sounds weak, stilted, but what is he supposed to say? There’s no explanation he can give that she will accept. And penpal is infinitely easier to believe than ‘inexplicable psychic bond with a kid I never met.’

Kate’s mouth lifts at one corner, a skeptical sneer, “You keep a picture from your childhood penpal? Why?”

Derek’s throat tightens, “He- he wasn’t just a penpal, he was my best friend. We- we were close.”

She watches him, gaze shrewd and unflinching, one hand on her hip. “And-”

Derek can hear blood rushing in his ears, his pulse thunders wildly. He swallows round the burning lump that’s appeared in his throat.

His voice is cracks, crumbles, dry as dust, when he finally says, “He- he died.”

 

-

 

Derek’s nine when he first speaks to Stiles. He’s on his bed, feet hanging over the edge, arms folded under his head, his Encyclopedia of Space open in front of him. He’s lying there, reading about the moons of Jupiter, when he feels a dull throb of pain in his arm. Well, it’s not pain exactly, but the echo of pain, like a memory of it, maybe.

He sits up in his bed, rubbing at his arm, curiously.

The sound of crying starts almost immediately afterwards, panicked and inconsolable. He can hear the sobs as clear as day, his head whips about to see where it’s coming from, but there’s no-one there. If he strains to listen, he can make out the dull thudding bassline from Laura’s stereo a couple of rooms over, and the low thrum of his parent’s conversation in the kitchen downstairs. There’s nothing to explain these cries.

He scrambles to his bedroom door and opens it. There’s no-one there. Somehow, that’s not unexpected. The sound of crying seems to be all about him, as if the person is there, in the room, right in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” he says aloud, into the empty bedroom.

At his words the sobs falter, juddering to a stop. He moves to his bedroom window, and throws it open, peering outside.

Nothing.

No-one.

There’s an uneven hitch of breath, the sort of noise someone makes when they’re trying not to cry.

“Why are you crying?” The pain in Derek’s arm spikes, sudden and unexpected, and he winces. Immediately, the sobbing starts again.

 _I fell, and m-my arm really hurts,_ says a voice. A kid’s voice.

Derek’s gaze drops to his own arm, which is now aching with a steady pulse of pain. He glances around his empty room once more, and on a whim he checks under his bed. There’s nothing there except dust bunnies, an old sock and a box of toys he hardly ever plays with.

The sobbing is getting louder again, the ache in his arm, worse.

“Where’s your Mom?” Derek asks, gnawing his lip.

What if this kid is lost or all alone, and Derek’s the only one who can hear him? He doesn’t know what to do, except that he’s overcome with the urge to make it better, to help in any way he can.

_She’s coming, says the kids voice, she’s here now. I’m gonna be okay, because she’s here._

Derek feels relief surge through him. “Okay,” he says, “okay, that’s good.”

And then the voice is gone. The pain in his arm is gone too.

And he has no idea why.

 

-

 

There’s something about the way Kate hovers over him, the ice blue of her eyes, pupils tiny pinpricks, the way she sounds almost bored, despite his obvious distress. It makes something in him recoil, like some part of him, some long dormant animal hind-brain, recognizes a predator and is preparing him for flight.

“How did he die?” she asks.

Just that question, so carelessly asked, triggers a storm in Derek. The thought of it, of Stiles, of all that Derek has lost. The memory of the pain that flooded through him the last time he felt a connection to Stiles, the fear and the helplessness, it hits him like a punch to his gut, sweeps through him and overwhelms him like a tsunami.

Derek’s hands tremble, his vision swims, blurring in and out of focus. He sinks into a nearby chair. “He uh- I don’t- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She towers over him, one hand on her hip, and flicks golden hair over one shoulder. “How can you not know?”

Derek swallows, his eyes scrunch shut, fingers clenched in his hair. “He uh- he disappeared. He just- disappeared.”

“Disappeared? What like kidnapped?” Kate asks.

“No, I don’t know. It’s- complicated.” Derek’s fingernails dig into his palms.

“God, you’re weird.” She rolls her eyes and wanders over to Derek’s fridge, checking out the takeaway menus he and Laura have stuck to it. “Ugh, I don’t like any of these. Come on, we'll get sushi from that place I like a couple of blocks over. Stop moping about, and put some shoes on.”

And just like that she’s lost interest in the subject. And, maybe she’s hungry, or bored, or both. Whichever it is, one thing is clear. She doesn’t care that Derek’s adrift in front of her, drowning in a sea of memories that rush around him like the tide.

 

-

 

In those first weeks after he hears Stiles’ voice, Derek tries to talk to his parents and siblings about him. They assume, not unreasonably, that Stiles is an imaginary friend, a phase that Derek will grow out of. Still he persists, keeps bringing him up, until they’re all fed up with hearing about him.

He finally stops talking about him after the incident with the picture. It’s increasingly apparent that what he and Stiles have is not something anyone else will ever believe or understand, and that until they’re old enough to actually meet, he’s better off keeping quiet.

He thinks about it sometimes though,  thinks about what it will be like to finally see Stiles’ face. They’ve tried to describe themselves to each other, so he knows Stiles has brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, moles ( _like, everywhere Derek, it’s awful_ ) and a weird nose (Stiles’ words, not his). And Stiles knows Derek has dark hair and kinda, sorta greeny eyes, maybe. ( _That’s it? That’s all you can tell me? Really?_ ) When pressed, Derek concedes that his ears stick out a little and that Laura calls him Buster Baxter, because of his bunny teeth. ( _Like, the rabbit from Arthur? God, that cartoon is weird, what’s Arthur supposed to be? I spent my entire childhood wondering! Imagine my disappointment when I hit Google and discovered he's an aardvark)_.

Sometimes Derek thinks about meeting Stiles, he thinks about how good it’s going to be to turn around to his family and his friends and be vindicated. Imagines standing before them and saying, “See, I told you. _I told you!_ ”

Mostly though, when he thinks about being able to see Stiles, he just wants to reach out and touch him, and know that he’s real. He wants to memorize every single feature, to know those things as intimately as he knows the rest of him. Is he as tall as Derek? As broad? Does he bite his nails? Crack his knuckles? Do his eyes crinkle when he smiles? When he laughs, does he laugh with his whole body? (Derek likes to imagine he does). Derek’s not, by nature, a curious person, but he’s very curious about Stiles.

How could he not be?

As far as he knows what they share is entirely unique. Unheard of. There has to be a reason for that, right? A reason why they share this connection with each other.

And Derek can’t help feeling that if he can just see Stiles, if he can just meet him face to face, he’ll be able to explain it. That it will be _obvious._

So, even though he tries to be grown-up and patient, tries to tell Stiles that they need to wait, that they’ll get to see each other eventually. Even though he does all of that- he’s just as impatient as Stiles is to finally meet.

Of course, it all goes horribly wrong before that can happen.

 

-

 

“I think you should leave.”

Kate stares at him, her top lip curls in a sneer. “Leave?”

He forces himself to stand, his fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of his jeans. He’s as close to having a panic attack as he’s been in months, but he won’t let it show, he won’t give her that power over him. He holds himself as rigid as he can and meets her gaze. “We’re through.”

“You’re breaking up with me? You?”

Derek nods.

“Because I touched some stupid goddamn picture in your wallet? For fucks sake, Derek. What is your damage?”

She stalks across to the couch and picks up her purse. He watches her warily, standing up and following her to the door. Anxious for her to be gone.

She turns to face him, “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me because of this, _Jesus._ What a fucking joke.”

Derek grips the doorframe, white knuckled.

“I’m upset, and- you don’t care,” he mumbles.

_“What?”_

He steels himself, and meets her gaze. “I’m breaking up with you, because I’m upset and you don’t care, and that _matters_.”

She snarls, spits abuse at him, turns on her heel and leaves.

He closes the door behind her, and locks it, tight.

Then he sinks to the floor, head in his hands and breathes. Once, twice, three times. Good, deep breaths.

He wishes he could just reach out and speak to Stiles, hear his voice, bright and reassuring. Feel his energy, his humor and enthusiasm. He misses Stiles’ relentless courage, that always seemed to fortify Derek’s own. Stiles gave him direction, he realizes that now. For years, wherever he was and whatever he did, he could reach within and find his true north in Stiles. It’s been five years since he last felt that assurance. Five lonely, rudderless years, where he’s floundered, struggling to keep his head above water, clinging on to anyone who happens to drift into his life, hoping against hope that he’ll find with them what he knows he had with Stiles.

He fumbles in the pocket of his jeans for his phone.

Laura.

He needs to speak to Laura.

 

-

 

The night he loses his connection to Stiles, Derek wakes to the sound of his own hoarse screams.

His chest aches, burns, like someone pried open his rib cage and ripped his heart right out.

His body is drenched in sweat. Clammy hands fist his bed sheets as he twists and writhes in agony.

His breath comes in short, sharp stabs, each one makes him feel like his lungs might burst.

The door to his room opens with a bang.

He barely registers his family standing there watching him, horrified.

There’s only one thought in his head, one word echoing through his brain.

Stiles.

Stiles is in pain. So much pain, and there’s nothing Derek can do. He won’t talk to Derek, won’t let him in, won’t explain what’s going on, but something is wrong. Very, very _wrong._

Later, they’ll tell him it took three of them to hold him down. His Dad, his Mom, Peter, all trying to restrain him, comfort him, cope with him, while Laura called for an ambulance.

Later, they’ll sit round his hospital bed, eyes red-rimmed from crying, smudged purple from lack of sleep, as Derek lays there, pale, hollow-eyed and silent.

Later, his Mom will clasp a hand to her mouth, tears leaking down her cheeks, while the doctor explains that he’s suffered stress-induced cardiomyopathy. A literal broken heart.

Later, they’ll gather round and try and get him to explain, to talk to them, to tell them why he’s so upset.

He refuses.

There’s nothing he can say.

Nothing anyone will believe, anyway.

Instead he sits there, silent and unyielding, until visiting hours are over and done with.

They ask if he wants anyone to stay with him, and he shakes his head.

He waits until he’s all alone in his hospital bed.

He waits, with only the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor as evidence that, despite what he feels, his heart is still beating. He’s still alive.

He waits until he’s sure he won’t be disturbed, and then he lets himself cry, soft, silent tears and choked back sobs that he hopes no-one hears.

Stiles is gone.

Derek can’t reach him, can’t feel the comforting thrum of Stiles’ emotions, or hear his voice, babbling bright and enthusiastic one moment, or sly and sarcastic the next.

He isn’t there.

And Derek, Derek is all alone.

  
  
-

 

Laura leaves work early when she gets Derek’s text.

She’s good like that, she always has been. Brash, confident, insensitive, but there, always there, she always has his back.

If he’d trusted her instincts about Kate, he might not need her now.

The truth is, he never talks about Stiles.

Ever.

With anyone.

Not his family.

Not his friends.

Not the therapist his parents paid for for two years after his cardiomyopathy.

Sometimes though, when Derek’s feeling particularly sad, when his soul aches with the loss of him, when he’s so crippled by grief that he can barely move, he calls Laura.

Laura, who Derek spent most of his childhood thinking of as a bossy know-it all (because she is).

Laura, brutally honest and wickedly smart.

Laura, who usually charges into delicate situations with all the poise, grace and sensitivity of an elephant performing swan lake.

Not when he’s like this though.

No.

Then, his Laura, with uncharacteristic empathy, leads him to the couch, let's Derek rest his head in her lap, and runs her fingers through his hair, scritching his scalp, rhythmic and comforting, and says nothing.

She never asks him to explain. (Although he knows her well enough to know she must be dying to ask).

She never says anything as tears leak slowly down Derek’s cheeks.

She doesn’t call him on it when his breath hitches, and comes in great juddering gasps.

She just lets him grieve.

It’s exactly what he needs.

 

-

 

It’s been a three months since he broke up with Kate.

Life is... good. Maybe the best it's been since he lost his connection to Stiles.

Breaking up with Kate has unlocked something in him.

For the first time in his life, he has taken control of something, and it’s given him confidence.

He quit his job at the gym, picked up work at the local library. It’s less money, but he’s surrounded by books all day, it’s peaceful and he enjoys the quiet monotony of it. He loves the smell of old books and the feel of the pages between his fingers.

He’s rediscovered his love of reading, and that helps too.

And maybe this won’t be what he does forever, but for the first time in a long time he feels peaceful. He feels like he could be _something,_ that he could start to move on with his life.

He’s walking home on a crisp New York evening. A brisk wind tugs the leaves from their trees in Central Park. Red and orange, brown and gold, the colors just visible in the street light, as they dance through the air, whipping round and about in dizzying circles before finally settling into large drifts, only to be trodden down into mush by the passersby  who rush through the park. The moon is out above him, a stark white circle against the dark sky, as he turns out of the park and starts to head for home.

Derek pulls his leather jacket round himself a little tighter and tucks his face into his scarf, chasing the warmth of it. If it gets much colder, he’s going to have to start bringing a hat. He jams his hands into his pockets, trying to get them warm, they feel like frozen slabs of meat, stiff and numb.

He’s about three blocks from home when he sees a coffee place. And it’s not his usual, but his usual is about three blocks away, and at the moment, he’s cold enough not to care. _It’s Always Bean You,_ reads the sign on the front of the shop, a notice in the window declares, “Come in and fall in love with our specialist blends, artisanal coffees and extra special staff, who are always happy to help”.

Derek snorts derisively, but then an extra cold gust of air whistles past him, chilling him to the bone, and he decides to give it a try.

He pushes open the door to the shop, relishing the rush of warm air that passes over him and feels himself start to relax. It’s a nice place, he thinks, as he looks about himself. The walls are bare red brick, squashy brown leather couches are scattered about next to low coffee tables that look like they’ve been made out of reclaimed wood. There are a couple of pot plants here and there, and a big chalkboard above the counter with all the drinks written on it. The vibe is homey, rather than pretentious.

“Can I help you?” asks the guy behind the counter. Derek glances across at him. His breath catches in his throat.

“Macchiato,” he hears himself say.

His mouth must be functioning without his conscious permission, some kind of response from his autonomic nervous system, because the rest of his brain has shut down completely.

He’s staring, he knows he’s staring, but he can’t seem to stop.

The guy, Isaac, according to his name tag, there’s something about him. He can’t help watching his every movement, from the way his bright, brown eyes dart between Derek and the drink he’s preparing, to the way that his hands deftly perform every task, long, supple fingers that work with practiced ease. He runs his hand through his hair, glancing at Derek again, tongue peeking out between pink lips.

He’s kind of- beautiful, Derek realizes. He’s been with a couple of guys, he's never thought of a guy as beautiful before though,  but… this guy is. Huh.

Isaac places the drink in front of him, watching Derek cautiously, a blotchy blush spreads up his neck and over his cheeks, and Derek knows what that means, and he's learned not to trust it. Plenty of people are attracted to his body, they're always a lot less invested once they uncover his personality.

He stands a little straighter, grabs a few bills from his wallet and slides them across the counter, then takes his drink, letting the warmth of it seep into his cold fingers.

“Thanks, Isaac,” he says, with a small smile and turns to leave.

He swears he can hear Isaac mumble something behind him, but by then, he’s already too far away to work it out.

 

-

 

For reasons he doesn’t let himself examine too closely, Derek ends up dropping in to _It’s Always Bean You_ the next night at around the same time.

Isaac’s on again, standing behind the counter wearing a thin t-shirt that stretches over broad shoulders, just visible under the bright blue apron he has on.

“Uh- hey, it’s you. I mean- uh, what can I get you?” he says, as Derek steps up to the counter.

Derek smiles, “Macchiato.”

Isaac seems flustered this evening, there’s a blush rising high on his cheeks already, and his teeth worry his bottom lip, leaving it plump and pink. His hands, that caught Derek’s eye yesterday, are less sure than before. He fumbles Derek’s cup, and narrowly avoids spilling steamed milk everywhere. By the time he slides the drink across the counter to Derek, his face is burning. Derek's not sure whether he's amused or sorry for him.

He hands Isaac his money, and takes a sip of his drink. "This is good!" he offers.

“Thanks.” Isaac rings through the sale on the cash register, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Most coffee shops tell you they’re giving you a macchiato, but what they’re actually giving you is a cup of steamed milk with a shot of espresso and a little caramel flavored syrup to it. That’s not how we do it here, this is authentic. A true macchiato is really half way between a cappuccino and an espresso. Hey! Did you know that coffee is the second most traded commodity?” Derek shakes his head. "It's true," Isaac continues, "And the most expensive one is $600 dollars a pound, it's called Kopi Luwak, we don't stock it here. It's made from beans that are extracted from the feces of civets-" His brain seems to catch up with his mouth and he trails off blushing furiously. "You don't care about that, why would you? Oh God."

Derek watches him, faintly amused.

Isaac shuts his eyes, "I have a tendency to ramble, when I'm nervous. Sorry."

Derek reaches into his wallet, and lifts out a couple of extra bills, puts them in the tip jar slowly and deliberately.

“Maybe I like the rambling,” he says, holding Isaac’s gaze, “and the coffee.”

Isaac meets his gaze, face flushing, lips open, plush and pink, before lifting upwards in a shy smile. “Oh-” he manages.

Derek grins, “Night, Isaac.”

 

-

 

“What are you smiling about,” Laura asks, later that evening, when they’re sitting together on the couch watching T.V. together.

“I’m not.”

“You are!” She leans forward and pokes at his cheek, “Dimples. Proof! I’ve not seen those in years. I’d forgotten you even had them. Who is it?”

“It’s not-” Derek’s ears burn, “I’m not, there’s no-one.”

“Lies.”

“I’m not lying!” Derek protests.

“Yeah, well, your lips say no, but the dimples are telling me you’ve got a crush.”

“It’s not a-” Derek sputters, “I was just thinking about a conversation I had with a barista at this coffee shop I found,”

“Ooh! Boy or girl? Are they cute?”

“Uh…” he stumbles to a halt, because he’s about to deny it on principle, but the truth is. He does think Isaac is cute. _Beautiful_ , his brain supplies helpfully, _you think he’s beautiful_.

And fuck, just like that, he realizes: He’s got a crush on Isaac. He opens his mouth, shuts it again.

“Aha!” Laura pounces for the remote and switches the television off.

“Um-”

“I was right, look at that hesitation. Tell me about them! They work at a coffee shop? Which one?”

“I’m not-” he begins, weakly, his mind filling with images of Isaac, his warm brown eyes, his snub nose, the way he got all embarrassed-

“Dimples!” she says, pointing a finger. “There they are again, the dimples never lie!”

“I-I guess I do have a crush,” he admits. To himself, as much as to her.

One second she’s grinning at him, and the next she’s launched herself across the gap between them and has latched herself on to him like a limpet.

“Are you going to ask her out?”

Derek swallows, “Him,” he corrects, “and I- kind of only just realized I was crushing on him when you pointed it out.”

Laura backs up a little, just so that she can side eye him, hard. “In-te-resting!” she says, drawing the syllables out. She looks pensive, brow wrinkled in concentration. “Now, this may sound a little weird, but given your, um, relationship history, shall we say… How about I go in there tomorrow and check if-”

“No! No.”

She pauses and looks at him. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t need your help Laur.”

“That’s debateable.”

“Not for this. I’m- capable of asking someone out if I want to. I don’t need you to be my wingman, or whatever. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll leave things alone. I promise.”

“Good.”

 

-

 

He’s too nervous to make his move. He’s never done this before, never liked anyone enough to _want_ to ask them out.

He keeps going back though, every evening that week after his shift like clockwork. He orders the same drink, smiles, tries to talk (mostly fails and ends up staring like a giant creeper, but it's okay. Isaac talks enough for both of them). He’s working his way up to it, that’s what he tells himself.

It’s Saturday evening, when he walks in to find a blonde woman behind the cash register. For the briefest moment his heart sinks. It must be Isaac’s day off, he has to have them. He can’t work _every_ evening, can he?

He almost turns on his heel and walks out, but the blonde, Erica, according to her name tag, is already smiling at him.

That’s when Isaac comes through from the back of the shop, carrying a large carton of milk. He’s wearing a red t-shirt tonight. There’s something written on it, but Derek can’t make out what because of the apron.

Erica smiles at him, asks him what he wants. He nearly misses the question, he’s too busy staring at Isaac.

“A macchiato,” he says. Not that it’s necessary. Isaac’s already started to prepare Derek’s drink. Derek bites his lip against a smile.

“So,” Erica says, “I've not seen you here before, you must be new. What's your name cutie?”

Derek can’t help but notice the way Isaac’s back stiffens. He’s listening. He’s interested. This could be it, an opening, he just has to avoid fucking it up.

“I've been here before. Isaac knows me. Don't you?” Derek says, and Isaac glances back at him, the barest hint of a smile playing across his lips. Derek grins so hard his cheeks hurt. "My name's Derek."

Isaac drops the pitcher of milk he’s holding. It falls to the floor with a clang. He’s covered in milk , the floor is covered in milk, the walls, it's everywhere.

He’s staring at Derek like he’s seen a ghost.

“For fucks sake, Stiles,” Erica grumbles, “Go and get a mop and clear it up.”

Derek stumbles, dizzy with shock, and grabs on to the counter, blinking furiously. His heart knocks furiously against his ribcage, his hands are sweating, legs shaking, barely able to support his weight.

“Hey! You! Derek! Are you okay?” Erica’s got him by the shoulder, she snaps her gum, and stares at him. “ _Jesus,_ you look worse than he did.”

“Stiles?” Derek mumbles, eyes flickering behind her. Stiles isn’t there. He’s gone.

“Yeah, Stiles. The grade A klutz who just threw milk around this place like he thinks he’s Jackson _fucking_ Pollock.” Derek’s gaze snaps to her. “What? I’m an art major.” She takes another look at him. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good. Pale. If I had to pick a word I’d say pale, bordering on pasty.”

Derek swallows, “I’m fine. I-I need to speak to Stiles, can I-” he gestures to the back.

“Sure! Why not? I’ll just stay here and clean this up myself, seeing as he’s taking his sweet time!” The last part of this sentence is shouted toward the back of the store.

Derek doesn’t wait to listen to more. He runs through the open door to the back and stares about himself. He can’t see Stiles, the back of the store seems to be empty, but then he hears a slight scuffling noise coming from behind a closed door to his right.

His hands are shaking as he crosses the room and knocks.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Erica!”

It’s him. The guy. Stiles.

“Stiles?” Derek tries, hoping against hope he’ll open the door.

There’s a long pause, the briefest sound of movement, and then the door opens.

Derek stares.

Brown hair, brown eyes, moles all along his cheek, a snub nose. _God,_ Derek’s been so _fucking_ blind.

“Stiles,” he breathes.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, “I didn't mean to drop your drink back there, I just-”

He doesn’t seem to get it, get _who_ Derek is, and for a second Derek doubts himself. And yet, the way he reacted when he heard Derek’s name. That has to mean something, doesn't it?

“Your name is Stiles,” Derek says, his eyes raking over him. Needing to be sure. Needing this to be _real._  “S _tiles_.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's not Isaac, I was just... my name tag broke and I had to just pick a random one so...” the voice, the way he talks, is this what Stiles would sound like now, as an adult?

Stiles curls in on himself, stuffs his hands into his pockets, he won’t meet Derek’s eyes.

Derek reaches out a hand. He wants to touch him. Just once. He needs to, needs to know that this is real, that he isn't dreaming. His can't stop trembling as his hand brushes Stiles' arm, warm, living, real. His fingers curl round and grip on, tight.

Derek inhales shakily.

“Stiles! It's you. It's really you! It's _got_ to be. How many people called Stiles can there be in the world?" Tears are pricking at the corners of his eyes, his voice breaks, “ _Fuck!_ I can't believe it Stiles, it's really you!" Without thought or permission he lunges forward, wraps his arms around him and holds on tight. Stiles stumbles back, but Derek doesn’t let go, he _can’t._ “Fuck, I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead,” he says, tears falling freely. He buries his face into Stiles’ neck and breathes in, trying to memorize this moment. To catalogue every the smell, the sound, the sight of him.

But Stiles pushes him off, staggers backward, holding his arms out, face screwed up in fear and disbelief.

“Derek,” he says, “ _Derek,_ Derek?” His voice is hoarse, eyes bright even in the dim light of the storeroom. “You-I-I didn’t make you up?”

“No!No…” He needs to be able to prove it beyond reasonable doubt. And for one moment he wonders how, but then he remembers. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Oh God! I can prove it to you, I still have this, look!” Carefully, he eases the worn picture out, and hands it to Stiles.

Stiles glances at him confused, unfolds it like he’s expecting it to be a bomb, not a child’s drawing.

He stares at the picture for a long while, when he looks up again at Derek, his eyes are bright with tears, “You kept this?”

Derek nods, feeling unaccountably shy. "Partly to remember you, and partly because I kept hoping I was wrong and that you were okay." He looks down at his shoes, "If we ever met, I wanted to be able to prove I was _your_ Derek."

The next moment he has an armful of Stiles octopussed round him, clinging to him so tight he can barely breathe.

“I missed you,” Stiles mutters frantically. “Oh God, I missed you and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shut you out, but my Mom died and I got so lost. I ran away from everything and when I wanted to be found again, I couldn't find _you._ I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry.”

Derek clings to him, holds him, can feel the way he’s shaking, and knows he's trembling too, like a leaf in the breeze. “Hey, it's okay, Stiles. It's okay.” He disentangles himself, so he can look Stiles in the eye, “We found each other, we still found each other.” He rests his forehead against Stiles’ and breathes out, feels all the tension he’s carried for the last five years drain away. “We'll always find each other.”

 

-

 

Epilogue

 

The cold, hard, truth is this: It's strange.

Once all the drama of that initial realization has died down, it's awkward. Stilted even. They're both too blown away, too shaken to function. They don't know how to talk to each other, or how they fit together after so long apart.

They've changed, that's the thing. There's a five year gap in their knowledge of each other. They're both different people, people who have been shaped and moulded by the things they've lost.

They don't really know each other any more.

That evening, Derek waits at  _It's Always Bean You,_ until Stiles' shift is over.

He walks with Stiles all the way back to Furnald Hall, where he lives,  hands jammed deep in his pockets to guard against the autumn chill. Next to him, Stiles shivers.

Derek doesn't even know where to start. What does he say? Where does he begin? He's never been good with words, and for once Stiles seems just as nervous.

By the time they get to the steps of Furnald Hall, Derek's still none the wiser. He's never known where Stiles is supposed to fit in his life,  even when they were as close as it was possible to be.

He doesn't want this to be it, but he doesn't know how to make it _more,_ either. He needs to know what Stiles is to him.

Before he knew that Stiles was Stiles, he'd been planning to ask him out, can he do that now? He wants to, but he doesn't _know_.

They both stand there, hunched and uncomfortable in the orange glow of the street lamp, staring at their shoes.

"It was good to see you," Derek tries.

Stiles gaze flickers up to him, one eyebrow raised, lips twisted in pained amusement. "You too," he bites out.

The silence seems to stretch between them for years.

"Well," Stiles says reluctantly, "I should probably..." He jerks a thumb at the building behind him.

"Okay." Derek's face feels wooden. The muscles stiff and unyielding. Nothing is going the way he wants it too.

Stiles scratches the back of his head. "You should take my number," he says.

"Yeah," Derek hears himself say, "Okay." His fingers are numb, as he fumbles his phone, punches in the number Stiles dictates to him.

"Okay," Stiles says. "I'm gonna go."

"Okay."

They both stand there.

"Right," Stiles says, eventually. "See you around, I guess." He turns to leave.

It's happening. Stiles is walking away, and Derek knows in his bones that if he wants this to be something more than an awkward friendship, he's got to make a move, he's got to do it now.

"Stiles, wait," he says, his hands bunching into fists. Just as Stiles wheels back round and says, "This is bullshit."

Derek blinks at him.

They stare at each other.

"This is bullshit," Stiles says again, softly, taking a step forward.

Derek swallows. "Bullshit?" he echoes, his voice a dull scrape.

"I don't-" Stiles begins, trailing off, he looks down at his feet. Derek feels hope flicker weakly in his chest.

"You don't?" Derek takes a step toward him, looks down at Stiles hands. They're trembling, he isn't wearing gloves, which is ridiculous in this weather. Stiles is ridiculous.

He looks back up, Stiles' eyes meet his, they're so close now. His eyes dart down to Derek's lips and then skitter away, and that's when Derek _knows_. Knows they're both on the same page. They both want this, he can have this with Stiles,  if he's brave enough to take the chance.

He exhales shakily.

He's spent most of the last six years letting his life happen _to_ him, shying away from big decisions, refusing to let anyone close. Unwilling to try and succeed, because he doesn't want to fail. Unwilling to live fully, because he knows what it means to lose the thing he cares for most.

He doesn't want to be that person any more.

He refuses.

Heart pounding in his chest, he ducks his head and touches his lips to Stiles', one swift, dry press. There are no orchestras playing, no dramatic thunderstorms, the bond they shared for so many years doesn't come rushing back at that first contact. Instead, he notices little things. The nervous hitch of Stiles' breath, the scratch of his stubble. The way his own hands shake, the blood rushing in his ears. He pulls back to find Stiles staring at him, wide-eyed and nervous.

Derek swallows.

Stiles' eyelashes are so long, he hadn't noticed that before. There are so many parts of Stiles he still has to learn.

"I've lived enough of my life without you in it," Derek hears himself say. "I don't want to do that any more."

Stiles bites his lip against a smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You want to come up? See my room? We could talk, get to know each other again."

Derek smiles. "Yeah, let's do that."

Stiles reaches out his hand, and Derek takes it, feels Stiles' fingers curl tight around his hand, pressing in, warm and reassuring.

They turn and make their way up the steps together.

It's a start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there it is, I hope you guys enjoyed it. Thanks in advance to anyone who leaves a comment or a kudos. It really means a lot. :D
> 
> I was super nervous about this one for some reason, but hopefully it's okay.
> 
> I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/). I'm pretty bad at it, but I'm getting better. Come say hi, I'm always available to chat, about Sterek, or life generally :D


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